


holy ground

by ancientglowstick



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Avengers Compound, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Gen, Marvel Universe, POV Natasha Romanov, Sad, also allusions to the red room n stuff, also no ones mentioned by name, anyway there aren't any REAL spoilers, bc i can heheh, bc i miss him :(, but there's lots of tony..... in the vibes, but they're alluded to, but yall should know that by now, i guess, i hope you can, i literally hated endgame so much, if you can tell which scene this is from, oof on me if you can't, please someone give her a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28357092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientglowstick/pseuds/ancientglowstick
Summary: Five years after Thanos halved the galactic population, Natasha Romanov prepares for her last mission with the Avengers. She reflects on her past and the history of Avengers Compound, wondering what the future holds.
Kudos: 3





	holy ground

This room is large, white, and cold. An enormous marble tomb.

Something about it is nostalgic, despite the sharply modern architecture. It's shed its skin many times, a feat I understand and admire, but its bones are old. The foundation is familiar, at least to me. I remember the moments that happened here from years ago and days ago, alike. As if they happened side-by-side. 

That could easily be from the erasing and the wiping. The programming and reprogramming. They afflicted me with the opposite of amnesia. My memory bank is spilling over with unfocused photos enhanced to the point of graininess. Still, I always had crisp memories, even before some of them were falsified. I can’t always tell which puzzle pieces I pulled from the box and which ones I’ve been given, but I’ll be damned if I don’t put together a clear picture. 

Don’t get me wrong -- it’s rarely a pretty picture. Just clear.

It’s a warehouse, refurbished time and time again with disappointing results. There’s nothing wrong with the building, of course. How can a building be wrong? It’s a cavity, waiting to hold something that gives it meaning. A cavity can only be empty. It’s the contents that are disappointing. 

Over and over, plans were forged here. Ideas of greatness and strength. Heroics unmatched. Then, the idea that coworkers could be more. Ideas of camaraderie and companionship. Unrealistic? Of course. We fought each other as quickly as we fought anyone else. But belief seeped into the very soil beneath this floor. And, by accident, it became our holy ground. 

I helped to sanctify it. Because, in spite of myself, I hoped that it would work out. That they, that  _ we _ would last. 

What a strange thing, betting against my better judgement. Years of calculated exactitude scrapped because I liked the people around me, for once. Instead of holding what it was supposed to, this warehouse cradles the deflated remains of several attempted dreams. I should’ve seen it coming. Delusion isn’t my color.

But here I am, in this vast hollow grave once more. I am not alone, though. They’ve all returned, too, albeit older. More battered. And with a few others who I know only by face and name. Perhaps seeing everyone again is what’s causing my nostalgia. For so long, they were all I had. All I needed.

Five years is a long time to be lonely.

Now, loneliness is outpaced by a deafening clash of more visceral emotions. Terror gnaws at me with more bite than when it had I was a child. I fight back a solemn understanding that something is ending today. The unfeeling white walls offer no comfort, except an expensive-looking resting place for whatever or whoever catches their death in our game of roulette.

Yet, I find myself hoping. The goddamn warehouse is infecting me again, surely. That, or the people gathered here. Whatever the cause, a somber smile snakes its way through my otherwise measuredly stern expression. Maybe the end we encounter will be a calm one. A peaceful one. Maybe it’ll be the end we’re looking for. After all, the best place to bury something -- be it a hatchet or a body -- is holy ground. 

Know that I speak from experience. I’ve buried both.


End file.
